Memories of Christmas Day are entangled with images of a hunk of pig flesh skewered by toothpicks securing pineapple rings and cherries. I stopped subscribing to Christmas cruelty almost twenty years ago and feel relieved to escape this insanity in Sri Lanka.

Mrs Madugalle, owner of Madugalle Friendly Family Guest House (Kandy Inn), keeps me topped up with porcelain pots of Ceylon tea and sits down to chat. I prattle away in my usual way, offering up 100 words a minute on the premise that if only 30 are understood, that’s a good result. Concerned about my lack of appetite since my water fast, she animatedly recommends an Ayurvedic doctor “only two minutes walking from my door”. What allopathic doctors, she says, couldn’t do for her in months with medicines, he cured in three sessions. I booked immediately. As a Buddhist, Christmas day is also just a Monday.

Pierced chakras and moxibustion heat down each shaft into my body and my freakish mind conjures up the Christmas roast. It’s painful … but in a good way. 
“I give you a little massage now?” With nothing more than threadbare towel and scant knickers as personal boundaries; I instantly feel regret for an offer too quickly accepted and, as my mind recreates memories, my muscles become taut at the impending experience of having a strange man’s hands all over my body. Accused of being a prude for most of my adolescence, desperate to be accepted, I dropped many vital boundaries. Perfect prey for the plucking. But this is post-Vipassana … “with a calm and equanimous mind”, I practice instead directing attention to the sensations of my body—“the reality as it is”.

The frequency at which I vibrate—physical, emotional, mental and soulful—attracts the same. If I struggle to trust, untrustworthy people will be drawn to me. As the protagonist changes so do the supporting roles; as the instruments change, so too the melody. I unravel the myth of my life to pull new threads and weave new narratives. It’s not always easy … which is why it’s called a practice.

From feet to head and hair, my entire body is slathered in ghee—ready for the oven—and my head with eucalyptus, until my chi and my trust are restored and detoxified. He’s thorough and brilliant and I feel safe in his healing hands. And that’s how I spend my first three hours of Christmas day and Boxing day—learning lessons in trust. I feel I have changed my tune.

The lotus perfume tacky in my nostrils as I gather with thousands of people at Sri Dalada Maligawa with their offerings. Babies start wailing; sweat drips off someone’s forehead onto my arm. I want to go NOW … a futile fancy. As an ADHD Duracell bunny with narcolepsy and a stroke of autism, there’s always a chance in high tension situations that I will either freak out … or nod off. The drumming begins along with a crush of bodies; a buildup that can only lead to denied expectations. Agitation … near panic; I cover my ears and close my eyes; the air is too thick to breathe. Every second seems like minutes waiting for tardy monks to open shrine doors to momentarily expose the Tooth Relic to masses intoxicated by their devotion. And, with the big reveal, the heaving horde gets propelled like peristalsis past a relic barely visible behind a large man in robes raking in bribes in exchange for enlightenment. Was it even there? Religious dogma. I am disillusioned. Forcing my way through clammy bodies, I at last burst out into the night. The storm clouds close in like primordial fluid. It’s time to contract and retreat to home base. 

Corresponding expansion comes twice a day with a circuit of Kandy Lake where, amidst the excessive sound, plastic and carbon monoxide pollution, reside furred, scaled, finned, fanged, winged and feathered creatures, all seemingly oblivious to the madness of humanity at their threshold.

As a foreigner walking around Kandy Lake, it’s important to trust boundaries … to remain equanimous with every offer of a tuk tuk ride to somewhere I don’t want to go … to never get frustrated repeating myself and to keep an even tone after countless, “no thank you, I want to walk”, “yes, I know where I’m going”, “no, I wouldn’t like to buy gems … wood carvings … your first born …” It’s crazy out there. I politely decline an offer from Lesley “look at my Trip Advisor profile … where you want to go?” to take me any of the places he goes, tell him I’d like to enjoy my walk, and move on. Two monitor lizards, a hundred bats, five dogs and a turtle later, there he stands with the dejected look of a man being dismissed at a bar, a foreign couple shaking their heads at him and moving on. I take his number. You never know, I say, I may want to go somewhere other than around the lake and to see the hope induced mirage of ancient relics.

There’s a worm in my ear that has been boring through my brain since Vipassana. It is the sound of ice cream trucks and rickshaw hawkers playing the high-pitched tunes of programming. Combined—simultaneously—with DJs smashing out some banging beats and megaphone mantras from temples, I feel an impulse. I call Lesley; it’s time for the jungle.

I travel to re-familiarise myself with the harmonious interplay between planning and whim … knowing that one requires the other. I travel to feel into … to breathe into … to emote into … to love into … the infinitesimal galactic marriage I have with the world. I travel not to find freedom but because it is always there.

And here I am at Lal Homestay, a haven from the city, after a tuk tuk tour to Dambulla Cave Temple, a roadside health food eatery in the Ayurvedic spice garden district, the essential coconut (“eating, drinking”), and a walk (scramble) in the rain to the top of Pidurangala Rock. A young girl climbs the rock in strappy Grecian sandals; I suspect they will soon be discarded along with the multitude abandoned footwear. There’s no such thing as bad weather, only choices around how I engage with it. Travel feeds me but hiking does more; the combination is my sweet spot. A quick up and down a rock, shrouded by fresh misty air, tropical rain and lush vistas is the alchemical elixir, the perfume fruit, the lotus flower.

Still restless, I walk some more. In Sigiriya village, I stop at a signpost at a Rasta restaurant: South Africa 7493km. It doesn’t seem possible it could still be so close; it doesn’t feel it should exist at all. I am in my bubble. If no one sees me do I still exist? To make sure, I ask permission to ring the big bronze bell at the monastery. I expand my wonder-full soul with sound. 

I decide not to climb the tourist highlight, Sigiriya (Lion) Rock, because of something I read to Nic from the India photobook prior to both of us departing. On the trip to Chennai Int’l the last time we went to India, I mentioned something we hadn’t had time to do and he said, “that’s ok, Mum, because it means we have something to come back for.” This inspires me to not only return again but to do so with the budget to view Lion Rock from the sky … in a hot air ballon. Yes, that’s a real thing here. And it’s in my crystal ball calendar.

I wake at 3.30am—my body clock having over-compensated by an hour or two—to rain as strong as my desire to walk. The world is a mysterious wonder and when I wander I find the mystery in me. It’s as much a calling as a compulsion. Strong black tea is delivered at 6am and a fruit platter at 7am. And then the wet weather gear gets reinstalled for a morning walk around the Lion in lieu of the summit. Alone on a road between a waterway and a jungle, I have noted the wild elephant warnings and have decided that, if encountered, I will take the waterway and just swim for it.

The squawk of peacocks comes first. An explosion of monkeys from the undergrowth follows.  There is eerie creaking, then the loud cracking and shattering of a tree falling towards the road. The chattering and squealing monkeys line up on the treetops; front row seats at the wildlife playhouse … there’s something there, and it’s BIG! My three Fs are Fight or Flight or Figure it out. Curiosity gets the better of me. But visibility is poor enough in the downpour and, failing climbing up to join the raucous crowd, I can’t see through the density of the first row of trees to claim a sighting. There is leopard here too. What a way to go. But I’m not yet ready. I walk away … slowly, lightly … I am neither prey nor predator.

Returning to Kandy, the real benefit of choosing tuk tuk travel becomes evident with the inundation of cars turning single lane roads into triple lane highways.. It feels like we’re in a getaway tuk tuk. I’m chilled; speed is my vibe. Between bouts of swerving and weaving and extreme driving skills, we take the crucial pit stops: coconut water and sweet fruits.

Roadside, a vendor adeptly carves a mango and bags it … peel and tip still intact yet dismembered from its seed. We stop beside a lake to eat with a view. I pull the skin back and sink my teeth into perfumed flesh, drinking each segment too juicy to chew. The earth stops still for a moment for me to savour what I am living into. Samadhi.

I have discarded the maps in favour of the territory and I am still just getting to grips with the lay of the land. And as I go, I plot my way. There really is no such thing as getting lost.